


I once knew a boy who liked to draw

by xXQueenofDragonsXx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Self-Harm, So does James, Teddy Lupin needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24973927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXQueenofDragonsXx/pseuds/xXQueenofDragonsXx
Summary: Teddy Lupin was a boy who liked to draw.
Relationships: Teddy Lupin/James Sirius Potter, past Teddy Lupin/Victoire Weasley - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	I once knew a boy who liked to draw

**I once knew a boy**   
**Who liked to draw**   
**Beautiful pictures**   
**That nobody saw**   
**He drew by himself**   
**Alone at night**   
**Locked in his bedroom**   
**Out of sight**   
**The pictures where strange**   
**They came with a twist**   
**His pen was a razor**   
**His canvas, his wrist**   
**We lay out at night**   
**Watching the stars**   
**When he lifted his sleeve**   
**And showed me his scars**   
**I wasn't shocked**   
**I knew what to do**   
**So I lifted my sleeve**   
**And said _"I draw too."_**

**\- Nicole Mann**

* * *

Teddy Lupin was a boy who liked to draw. From towering skyscrapers to shining stars in the night sky, Teddy Lupin was a boy who liked - no loved - to draw.

He drew the pictures that nobody saw, ones that he would never show or never tell of. He was most artistic at night in the bathroom, and out of sight. He kept his art a secret, and no one knew. He never told a soul, and so, over the years, his gallery grew.

But these drawings were different than the ones people thought of day to day. Teddy didn't use paper, nor did he use a pen, he didn't use a brush, nor did he use paint. No, Teddy used the surface of his palm, the skin of his wrist, stomach, and ankles. He used his skin as a canvas and his blood as the paint. He used knives and razors as his pens and his mind as the inspiration, but through it all, nobody saw.

Except for James.

James Potter was the only one who saw them, the only one who saw the images and pictures that nobody else saw. The ones that Teddy made late at night when nobody else was there. He saw the tears and silent screams that couldn't be released and never would. James saw the broken boy that Teddy Lupin was when nobody else did.

Most people only saw a happy boy who was raised by Harry Potter. Most saw Teddy as a cheerful, happy, boy, who had everything he could want in life. But James saw right through the mask his godbrother put up, he saw the pained look in his eye and the desperation every time he took out his knife. Teddy Lupin was all broken bones and shattered hearts. He was a boy who was built out of sadness, pain, agony, and sorrow. He is tragedy, disaster, and suffering all rolled into one. Teddy is all sharp blades and broken glass, and James falls in love with him without realizing any of that.

* * *

James would run his fingers over the scars when Teddy slept, marking each within his mind. He would stare at the lines until they blurred, wondering the story of each one, wondering when Teddy made them. Scars crisscrossed over scars. Some old, some new. Burns and bruises, cuts that oozed with blood.

Teddy's skin was always cold when he did so. He faintly remembered the times where Teddy was warm like an oven, back when he was happy. A part of him wondered whether his temperature changed with his moods, he wouldn't be surprised if it did. Maybe it was a werewolf thing, or a metamorphmagus thing, he didn't know but never asked.

Teddy didn't know that he knew, and James didn't tell him. He knew that Teddy needed a secret, and he let him have it. If Teddy wanted to tell someone, then he would do it in his own time. James wouldn't force it on him.

* * *

James blames his parents. He blames every single one of the Weasley's, married into the family or not, for Teddy's condition. He never stops blaming his parents. His aunts and uncles. He never stops blaming that goddamn war that took so much from them. He blames his parents, the war, and the Weasleys for how they were destroying Teddy without even realizing it.

He blames the warm, sunny afternoons where the two of them would run around trying to catch each other. He blames the times where Teddy would wrap his arms around his waist and spin him around in the air while James giggled up a storm. He blames the times that they would roll around in the grassy garden of The Burrow, and then his parents or one of his aunts or uncles would say something about, 'how much of a shame it was that Teddy couldn't be an older brother,' or something of the like that would instantly make Teddy's face fall.

James blames the sad comments and sympathetic remarks that were intended to be kind and comforting, but only succeeded in digging deeper into Teddy's already fragile self-esteem. He blames the time after Teddy had broken up with Victoire and half of the family had turned against him for a full year. He blames everyone and everything, but sometimes he wonders if he should blame himself.

* * *

It was a cold, damp evening at The Burrow when Teddy's secret is revealed to the family.

The reason? Fucking Victoire Weasley. He loved his cousin, he really did, but at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to scream at her, to shake her and ask her what in Merlin's name she was thinking.

She had found out a few days before, apparently, but James never found out how exactly. Teddy had sworn her to secrecy, but she blabbed to the whole family as soon as they sat down for dinner that day. James remembered seeing the blood rushing out of Teddy's face when it happened. The fear and anger mixed with shame and embarrassment as the family descended into silence.

Dad had Teddy lift his sleeve, revealing every single one of the drawings that littered his arms.

An immense argument had ensued, ending with Teddy storming off into the night in a rage. Seconds later, James had followed.

Mum had called him back, but James ignored her.

* * *

James finds Teddy a few miles away curled up under a tree, sobbing heavily with his arms over his head.

"Victoire's a bitch," was the first thing he said to Teddy, taking a seat next to him. "She shouldn't have done that."

Teddy stares him for a long time without talking, just looking at James with blank eyes, not talking, not demanding him to leave, just staring. They sit there for a while, just staring into the distance and at each other.

"I already knew," James says after a few moments, and Teddy's head snaps up. "I knew for a while, for years, really."

Teddy raises his grey eyes to James' brown ones, probably expecting disgust, hatred, or maybe disdain. But there's nothing. "Why?" he asks after a few moments, and James shrugged.

"Because it was your business to tell, not mine."

Teddy blinks at him, the surprise apparent in his eyes. He drops his hand to the ground, and it brushed James', closes his mouth, and focuses his gaze onto his knees. They sit there in silence, and James waits until Teddy looks back at him, leans forward, and kisses him.

Teddy freezes, before quickly melting into the kiss, reaching his hand up to tangle them into James' hair. It was soft, gentle, kind, it was a little sad, a little desperate, and a little scared, but to James, it was perfect. James pulls Teddy into his lap to deepen the kiss, and Teddy lets him.

Finally, they break apart, staring at each other with wide eyes. "That was why I didn't tell them," Teddy whispers a few seconds later. "I knew they would act like this, and they did."

"I didn't," James says quietly. A small smile pulls at Teddy's lips, and he laughs, sounding hollow and empty to James' ears.

"I know," Teddy says, resting his head on James' shoulder, "thank you."

James is quiet, "can I see them?" he asks softly.

Teddy grows silent, but slowly he nods. He rolled up his sleeves once more and showed James his scars. An embarrassed look crossed his face, and he looked down at his shoes, his face burning with shame. James runs his fingers over the cuts, tracing each one. He tracks the burns, the bruises, and Teddy watches him, his eyes wary.

His fingers stop at a long, ragged scar on Teddy's palm that led up to the middle of his forearm. "What's this one?" he asks, he's seen it before, and always did wonder.

"The first one," Teddy says, his voice small. James cocks his head, and his finger moves to a large bruise on Teddy's knuckle.

"And this?" He asks.

"I punched a wall," Teddy responds. "After Vic... found out."

They carry on like this until the sun had nearly risen. At this point, they could hear the rest of the family waking up, some calling out their names. But they ignore them. Teddy had his shirt pulled up, revealing each mark and flaw on his stomach. Telling stories about the illustrations on his body while James listens.

When Teddy stops talking, he looks at James with careful eyes, "there's more, isn't there?"

James frowns, confused, "What do you mean?"

"To your reason," Teddy says, "you said you didn't tell because it wasn't your secret to tell, but there's more, isn't there?"

Instead of growing defensive or telling Teddy he's wrong, James smiles, rolls up his sleeves, and whispers, "I draw too."


End file.
